The Adventure of the Orchestra Ghost
by TaylorLeighWrites
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are mysteriously invited to attend the opening performance of a new symphony. When murder fouls the evening, it's up to the two detectives to find out who's responsible, and why, before an even greater tragedy occurs. This is a very Phantom of the Opera story!


**The Phantom of the Orchestra**

My dear friend Sherlock Holmes was a man of few real pleasures which he indulged in. The first, and by far most obvious, would be his work, of which he occupied the majority of his—and my—time. The second would be tobacco, which helped soothe his mind but, of course, destroyed his lungs, and so I was working very hard to him wean him off. The third, and perhaps most surprising, was music. And of this last, Sherlock cared for deeply.

He was a master musician, bringing his violin to life in the most amazing of ways and often astounding me with his spontaneous compositions. On some days, music was the only way to get a word out of Holmes, for when he was puzzled or upset or cross it was the only way he'd communicate. Often playing, much to my impatience, into the night.

However, despite my occasional annoyance, having a flatmate who was gifted with music was, for the most part, a wonderful thing. Sherlock often, when he had the time, purchased tickets to various concerts and, more often than not, invited me to come along.

It was on one such evening that I was sitting in the back of a cab on the way to the theatre with Sherlock Holmes. My friend was, as he was so often, lost in his own thoughts as he stared out the window at the city flashing by, humming a classical tune. Until at last he surprised me by speaking, not tearing his eyes away from the streets of London. He began to go on about the different composers, those good and those not so much, giving me a detailed and whirlwind account of the musical world. I, never being much inclined to music, nodded my head now and then and gave the occasional 'Mm,' or 'yes,' when required. Sherlock didn't much mind. He chatted away merrily in remarkably high spirits.

We were off to see a new performance premiering that night and Sherlock had, rather unexpectedly and much to his surprise, been offered box seats. He now seemed to have adopted a rather snobbish air about him as he went on comparing his favourite composers to this new, untested composer whom we were to see tonight, named Vanderlain. I didn't have much to say on the issue, but I felt a rather strong urge to stick up for this underdog since I saw so much of myself in him: an inexperienced, perhaps even considered sloppy composer, when compared to my companion, Sherlock Holmes.

We arrived at the theatre just in time to find our seats and I was just getting comfortable as the curtains rose. As the music began, so did Sherlock's critiques. Yet, to my surprise, they almost immediately faded to a sheepish—and then awed—silence. By the time intermission hit, Sherlock was praising the genius of the work. He could hardly wait for the second half to begin. And more than once I had to apologize to those on either side of us for Sherlock's impatient comments.

As the curtain rose again I could feel his anticipation rise with it. The music began to swell dramatically and Sherlock settled back contentedly, his eyelids already languidly beginning to close. And then they snapped open, for at that moment, a body dropped from the ceiling, completely shattering the mood.

The man was hanging from a noose and for a horrible moment I watched—stunned—as the man's body jerked and swung in the air.

'Sher—'

I turned to my companion and found his seat empty. I whirled round and saw him bounding to the back of the box like a bloodhound on the scent. With a curse I followed after him. Around me the theatre had exploded into a pandemonium of horrific screams as the stage hands desperately tried to lower the curtain to hide the sight.

I pushed through the toff crowd after my friend, just barely able to keep his dark hair in view as he burst through the doors to backstage. If the audience was in a state of panic, backstage was a nightmare. It was pitch black, which I found quite inexplicable, and illogical. Around me I heard screams and sobs and above it all a loud voice shouting, 'Well good God, man, get up there and cut him down! Now! And turn those bloody lights back on!'

There was some fuss and then with a bright flash the light was restored. I stumbled, blinded.

Sherlock made straight for the loud speaker and slid to a stop before him, brandishing one of Lestrade's pickpocketed ID badges in the process.

'Sherlock Holmes, police,' he said by way of introduction.

The man, rather fat and balding with glasses, gave my friend a hard look. 'Police? By God that was fast!'

'I was in the audience. Wonderful performance, by the way, Mr Vanderlain. I was quite impressed. Quite a way to hold everyone's attention for the second half by dropping a body from the rafters. That really brought down the house.' Sherlock's eyes gleamed.

The man, who Sherlock had identified as Vanderlain, mopped his sweaty brow. 'It was an accident. Simply…'

Sherlock pulled a long face. 'Body thrown from the catwalk with a noose round his neck just as the curtain rises? Hardly.'

More commotion came from behind us and we turned to watch a small procession coming our way. With them arrived the body of the person who had met such an unfortunate end. Screams of surprise broke out from several of the people who had conglomerated together in curiosity over the incident.

I glanced at Sherlock and he nodded. 'I'm a doctor,' I said. 'Mind if I take a look?'

A woman nearby, holding a violin, scoffed. 'What good will _that _do? We know what he died from!'

I gave her a tight, what I hoped was patient, smile. 'Just the same, I'd like a look.'

Whispers broke out round us. Gossip, theories, rumours. All a quiet hiss, like steam.

I walked to the body, Sherlock right behind me. When we arrived, we both glanced down together, seeing completely different things.

'How much time do you need?' I asked in a low whisper as I examined the man's neck.

'Give me three minutes.'

I nodded. As I watched, I saw Sherlock go darting about the body, checking it over from head to foot in his usual erratic fashion.

Vanderlain let out a cry of protest and indignation but we both ignored him.

When Sherlock finally stepped back his features were clearly smug. 'Alright,' he said after spinning back to Vanderlain. 'I accept.'

Vanderlain scowled in blatant confusion. 'Accept? Accept what?'

Sherlock threw his hands in the air impatiently. 'The case, of course!'

Vanderlain spluttered. 'But—but what case?'

Sherlock gave the man a trying look. 'Oh, please. You, being the owner of this theatre, are about to have quite a lot of eyes on you. A lot of bad publicity. Surely something you want to avoid. This was clearly murder. And that's the sort of thing I do. This man died in quite a spectacle, the murderer wanted you all to see it. The murderer wanted your attention, so much so that he had put this note in the man's pocket.'

Sherlock held up a small sealed envelope. On it, in wax, was a red skull. A woman with a violin gasped. 'Oh my god! It's the Phantom of the Orchestra!'

I couldn't help but laugh. 'Phantom of the Orchestra? Are you serious?' I looked round. 'You can't be!'

Blank, terrified faces met mine.

'He's struck again,' someone else whimpered.

I shook my head. 'A ghost? Seriously?'

Sherlock looked about them, eyes shining keenly.

A flute player came forward. 'Well, until this all stops, I quit!'

Vanderlain started to protest.

'No!' she barked. 'I've had enough! All these "little accidents" and now this! No! I'm through!'

I turned to Sherlock. 'Sherlock, surely…'

In response he held out the letter to Vanderlain dramatically.

Vanderlain hesitated. 'But…'

Sherlock sighed. 'I've already examined it and have all I need to know. There won't be any fingerprints and I think you'll want to see what's inside.'

With tremulous fingers, Vanderlain did as he was told.

'Please do be so kind as to read it aloud,' Sherlock purred, closing his eyes.

The man took a deep breath and cleared his throat. 'If you do not return what you have taken then disaster will fall upon you. My eyes will be watching. You know what you must do.' Vanderlain looked up, clearly shaken. 'That's all.'

Sherlock swiped the note from him. 'Hardly. That may be all that is written, but that is hardly all that is here.'

It was then that the police arrived. Throwing the scene into a new wave of chaos.

'Ah, Lestrade!' Sherlock crowed sarcastically. 'To the rescue at last!' I watched as he quickly stuffed the note into his coat pocket.

Lestrade looked—and I am not entirely sure I blame him—slightly disappointed to see my friend. 'Sherlock, why am I not surprised? Contaminating more evidence?'

Sherlock bobbed up and down on his heels like a child bursting with excitement. 'You're late to the party, Lestrade! We've been having so much fun!'

The inspector strode over to the body, wrinkling his nose. 'So, what's the story, then? This poor sod's walking the rafter and someone comes up behind him, slips a noose over his head and then down he goes? Anyone else working up-top?'

Sherlock tilted his head back to study the darkened ceiling. I follow his gaze but can't catch whatever's captured his attention.

Vanderlian nodded. 'Two others.'

Lestrade gave his head a quick, decisive nod. 'Right. Guess we'll get started talking to them! Sherlock, we'll see you around if we need help.' He gave my friend a meaningful look which my friend returned a bit nasty.

Once Lestrade was out of sight Sherlock darted back over to Vanderlain, keen eyes gleaming. 'This man,' he indicated the dead body two men were now carefully removing, with a quick nod of his head, 'Manuel. He was from Spain, wasn't he?'

Vanderlain blinked in surprise. 'Barcelona.'

Sherlock nodded. His eyes narrowed. 'He wasn't well-liked by the other stagehands. Why? Aside from the drinking, I mean.'

Again, Vanderlain looked astounded. 'How could you possibly—?'

He stopped himself when I stepped forward. 'Just go with it. He's showing off, but why didn't the others like Manuel?'

Vanderlain gave my friend a wary look. 'He was a thief.'

Sherlock nodded, looking as if he'd already known as much. 'You've had quite a bit of trouble with him in the past, haven't you? Oh, nothing provable. The odd pound or the valuable left out now and then but no one's ever been able to pin it on him.'

'Hang on,' I said, 'if Manuel was the thief, why are you the one with the threatening note addressed to you?'

Sherlock smiled at me, looking a little like a proud father.

Vanderlain shrugged. 'I wish I knew!' He sighed dramatically. 'I guess as the owner of this place, I'm automatically the one to blame.'

I wasn't sure if Sherlock was still listening, for he had again tilted his head back to look up to the dark catwalks above our heads, his hawk-like features pinched with thought.

'Why did you ignore the other warnings, Vanderlain?'

'What?' said the man in surprise.

Sherlock turned back to him. 'Oh, I know this isn't the first note received from this "Phantom". He worked up to this murder and is promising something more drastic still, so why have you ignored him? Surely you want to stop him before he strikes again, yes?'

Vanderlain sighed. 'I thought it was just a silly prank, you know? Nothing more than that. Then the accidents started happening.'

'When?' I asked curiously.

Vanderlain ran a hand through his thinning hair. 'After we started practicing my newest piece.'

I nod. 'What we heard tonight?'

Vanderlain pursed his lips. 'Yes. There were threats. People quit unexpectedly. Equipment never worked properly. Instruments were found sabotaged. This stage is used for plays some times and one day a trap door opened, dropping one of performers to below. Nasty accident. He broke is leg. Not to mention the horrible state his instrument ended up in. We'd hear laughter, coming from everywhere at once. But whenever we went to investigate, there was no sign of the one responsible besides the notes. I think that's how the ghost rumours began.'

Holmes tilted his head to one side. 'Do you mind if I have a look at them?'

Vanderlain hesitated for a brief second, then relented. 'Yes, they're just in my office.'

He waved for us to follow and we marched further into the back of the theatre. The back stairways and halls were dimly lit and I found my imagination beginning to play tricks on me. I was not a superstitious man, but I couldn't shake the tingling at the back of my neck. Like something was watching. I tried to ignore the feeling.

Once in Vanderlain's small office I stood over my friend's shoulder as he read the notes. It was hard to read the way Sherlock was shifting through them. But I got the gist. All threats. All increasing. All, sadly, ignored. And now a man was dead. After reading through them as best as looking over Sherlock would allow, I turned my attention round the room.

'So,' I said slowly, 'how did you come to such a posh place as this? From what I've heard you've sprung up out of the blue in the composing world.'

Valderlain brightened. 'Ah! Yes. Well, I've always owned this theatre. In my spare time I've been composing.' He chuckled. 'I'll admit, I didn't expect it to be such a hit!'

I turned to stare at a small music stand, on which was placed a familiar sight, a much blotted, scribbled sheet of music. 'And is this it, then? The original? I recognize the title: "The Golden Summer"?'

Sherlock was at my side in an instant, frowning over the piece, bursting with such happy excitement that I have rarely seen from him.

Vanderlain brightened at Sherlock's interest. 'Yes, that's it. Took me months to compose.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Such a movie, deep piece. I especially appreciated the shift in the tone of the third movement. Bringing the violins to such a dark adagio was an excellent choice. I do love a good violin.'

I knew nothing of what my friend was talking of, but nodded enthusiastically anyway. By now, I'd become aware of when my friend was pulling one of his acts and he was doing so now, with overwhelming charm.

'Thank you.' Vanderlain bowed.

Sherlock then stuck his lips into a pitiful pout. 'It's a pity I missed the second half.'

Vanderlain whirled round and began scribbling madly. 'Well, after all you've done trying to help me with this, showing such an interest, how can I deny you? Just show this next time you want to come.'

Sherlock took the slip from him and read it over. 'Ta.' Then he flashed another winning smile and turned for the door. 'If you don't mind, Vanderlain, I think I must find Lestrade and speak with him briefly. I have several leads running round in my head and want to be sure to pin them down.'

Vanderlain smiled warmly. 'Yes. Of course. I do hope you can resolve this quickly. Tracking down that damn phantom will put my mind at rest like you cannot imagine.'

Sherlock was laughing as we both pounded down the stairs.

'Care to tell me what's so funny?' I asked.

'This case, John! It's so simple a child—no—Lestrade could solve it!' He laughed again.

'Okay, care to fill me in?'

Sherlock stopped on the stairs and dropped his voice. 'What do we know, John?'

I thought for a moment. 'A Spanish man, Manuel, was killed by a person who's been dubbed as the Phantom by the staff, who wants Vanderlain to return something that was stolen.'

Sherlock waits and then, 'Anything else?'

I wrack my brain but come up with nothing. 'No. How about you? Tell me what you know. How did you know Manuel was a thief? Or Spanish, for that matter?'

'Oh, John, you know my methods. The first hint was easy. Found his ID card, gave me his name. Simple, I won't deny that. Not many people liked him. You saw the crowds yourself when he was taken down. They were shocked, yes, but not horrified. Not upset. And give yourself some credit, John. You knew he was a drinker, too. The man smelled like a brewery.'

I nod. 'Okay, easy enough. And being Spanish? Lots of people are named Manuel.'

'Spanish to English dictionary in his pocket. Spanish flag tattooed on his arm. Not to mention the ash from his cigarette. _Fortuna_, a Spanish brand. I've made a study of ash, as you know.'

'Okay, again, simple, except for the ash bit. And the thievery? I know Vanderlain said that himself, but you already knew, didn't you?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Bits and bobs in his pocket. The odd ring, note, Oyster card, pound, all hastily stuffed into his pocket. Random, without much thought.' Sherlock held up a hand. 'But he's not the interesting one. The interesting one is our left handed, tobacco smoking stagehand who knew and hated Manuel and had a taste for the theatrics. Our murdering phantom.'

'_What?' _ I blink. 'How did you figure all of that out?'

He huffed his breath and waved the note. 'With this. I can tell by the hand that it was a left-handed person and someone quite strong at that.'

'But—'

'I've made a study in handwriting as well, John. You can check the site. This stationary is theatre stationary. I know because,' he pulled out another piece, 'it's the same as my invitation I received to attend the show this evening. So, strong person, and someone who works at the theatre. Stagehand.'

I stared at the two letters in his long, pale hands. 'They're the same handwriting.'

Sherlock grinned. 'Ah! I'm glad you caught that! Yes, they are.'

I frown. 'So…the Phantom invited you? Why?'

Sherlock was beaming now. 'To see the murder.'

I was completely baffled. 'Why?'

Sherlock's eyes glinted. 'To help bring the thief of his composition to justice. Unfortunately, in the process he'll also go to prison for murder, but he'll finally get the justice he craves. Ah, the trials of being a genius.' Sherlock seemed elated.

I shook my head, still confused. 'But, how do you know it was stolen?'

Sherlock sighs. 'Oh, my poor, poor John. You miss so much. You looked right at it! The original composition! The handwriting was exactly the same as the Phantom's and that bit about asking Vanderlain about the piece? He clearly knows nothing about music. It is the second movement which contains the adagio, not the third. Ha! His handwriting on his card inviting me to a future performance is completely different from our Phantom notes, see? No, Vanderlain did not write the piece. A stagehand did. Manuel stole it from him, and then most likely sold it to Vanderlain, or gave it to him to keep his job.

'Now the Phantom is going on his little revenge trip. He's proven how well he knows the theatre, every back passage, every trap door, every trick of the stage to make it look supernatural. Oh, clever, very clever.' Sherlock's eyes grew a bit wistful. 'I almost admire him. Genius begs to be recognized, Watson. You know that.'

I rolled my eyes. 'I certainly do. So, do you think you can catch him? The Phantom, I mean?'

Sherlock grinned. 'Oh, yes. He's still here, waiting for me, I shouldn't wonder.'

'What?'

'Recognition, John!'

And then he was running down the stairs again.

I followed him out to the stage. Sherlock took a quick look about and then nodded to Lestrade. Then his eyes fixed on a young, strong man pulling the curtain back up. He walked forward slowly, deliberately and stopped before the man. The stagehand stopped and stared at Sherlock for a long, face blank. Then Sherlock held out a piece of paper to him.

In an apologetic voice, Sherlock smiled at the man and said, 'Excuse me, I hate to bother you, but I was invited to the next performance of this brilliant piece but I seem to have forgotten the time. Can you just write it down for me?'

The man stared at Sherlock for a very long moment. And, I do not know if it was just my imagination, but I thought I saw some sort of understanding pass between them. The man slowly nodded, and with his left hand took the pen and wrote. Sherlock smiled grimly. He raised his eyes to the stagehand and said very quietly, and quite sincerely. 'I am in awe of your work. You are truly a master of music.'

The stagehand smiled thinly. 'That is all I ever wanted to hear.'

Sherlock raised his voice. 'Lestrade, I've found your man. He'll come quietly, just as long as he gets the justice he deserves. I'll explain it all.' He flashed a brief grin. 'Not a bad night for the theatre! I should come more often!'

And with that he marched past me, humming away. Never had I seem him enjoy music so much. I followed him down the aisle, his musical hummings swelling in my brain, an orchestra of brilliance.

**End**


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